


all these things I think about

by TeaCub90



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Affection, Angst, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:47:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23908708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: ‘Would you hold me?’
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 56





	all these things I think about

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, the best method for coping with my poor mental health (anxiety _and_ depression, double-whammy, yay!) is to inflict all my mental problems on Crowley and then have Aziraphale sort it all out. I would desperately love an angel hug, but I'm having therapy instead. Stay safe, friends. 
> 
> Title inspired by Mae's 'In Pieces' (which has a real Aziraphale/Crowley feel to it, but it's not surprise as this is a group with a song for every fandom occasion).

* * *

‘Would you hold me?’

Crowley makes the request quietly, arms tightly locked around himself, as he stares out of the window onto the street, the people passing by. Aziraphale, who’s given him the space to pace and think and breathe and be, glances up from his book; Crowley’s back is hunched, his long, thin fingers shells on his elbows. Pale fingers with bitten nails; hair that’s grown out, had fingers run through it far too many times.

He’s been, to put it simply, a wreck; has been since he showed up the previous afternoon, shaken and somehow unable to speak about it. He’s transformed a few times since being here – retreated into his snake form, climbed the stair-frame, only to come back down again as himself – lingered close to Aziraphale, wandered around between the shelves. He’s been clingy, the angel’s noticed, standing close by, not wanting to be on his own. If he could wrap himself around Aziraphale’s arm in his serpentine form, he’d probably do it. (And the angel would, most likely, allow it).

So frankly, Aziraphale isn’t surprised by this request at all. In fact – rather selfishly so – he’s simply glad to finally hear the demon _speak._

‘Angel,’ Crowley turns his head slightly without looking all the way around, as though mistakenly fearful of what awaits behind him, perhaps anticipating some element of refusal – a knockback, even. His voice feels less than the quirk of a question and more like the weight of concrete; his dark glasses have vanished, placed haphazardly down on some surface somewhere and promptly forgotten about, like the mugs of cocoa that so often grow cold.

‘Of course, my dear.’ Aziraphale smiles softly, a little sadly and putting both glasses and book aside, he wanders over, would-be casual, to join Crowley by the window; lays a hand on his back; makes a show of peeking out next to him with a faint, faux show of interest at the street beyond, all too aware of the haphazard burn of the angel’s eyes on him, like a flame that’s a little bit drunk, or rather distressed.

‘Oh, look at that gentleman over there. Late night shopping,’ he nods to a fellow across the road, scuttling along, glancing at his watch, a plastic bag hanging from a hand. ‘Milk and bread for his little ones.’ Smiling at Crowley, he continues to stare out and to speak, hopes to pull the demon out of his own head, at least just a little; taps at the window, looking towards a lady in purple, ‘oh, but that woman there. Oh dear, Crowley. I’m afraid she’s,’ he trails off delicately, rubbing a thumb against Crowley’s back. ‘Well. She rather has commitment issues, I fear. Still,’ he adds, feeling kind. ‘She must have her reasons.’

He glances knowingly, sideways at Crowley whose amber eyes are wide and wounded and very, very anxious, but fixed on his face all the same; lets his hand rub up and down his back in a soothing gesture. ‘And you’re safe. You’re safe here, my dear.’

‘I don’t feel it,’ Crowley sounds strangled, as though he’s back in snake form and some ruffian has put a hand over his neck. ‘I mean – I know – I _am,_ angel, don’t – don’t get me wrong. I don’t – I can’t seem to _feel_ it and it – it _hurts,’_ he hisses the word, sounding so utterly broken and Aziraphale nods, soothes him and holds him, lets him collapse into his arms.

‘I know, my darling. I know.’ And he _does_ know; knows how it can get sometime. These feelings like cold metal in your stomach; of a rattle in your fingers, and in your feet. Unable to be still; unable to be alone. They’ve lived through centuries’ and centuries’ worth of pain, after all. It only makes sense that one of them would occasionally have a bad day, Armageddon notwithstanding.

But how wonderful – almost perversely so – that today, Crowley would, actually, miraculously, _ask for help._

‘It _hhhhhurts_ , angel,’ Crowley hisses from somewhere in his shoulder. ‘It _hurts.’_

‘Mm. Of _course_ it does.’ Aziraphale strokes his hair, thinks about all the times he offered counsel over the years – not even to Crowley, but to the human-race: the desperate, the lonely, the bereaved, the mentally-ill, the distressed LGBT youth, the ones struggling with faith, the ones with none; outside churches and flats; under bridges and even in the Garden itself. ‘Of course it does, my darling, I know, I know.’

‘Will it sssstop, angel? When will it _stop?’_

‘Ssssh,’ Aziraphale nuzzles his hair softly. ‘It doesn’t have to stop right now. I know you want it to; I understand how much it hurts. But it _will_ stop, soon, I promise. Come with me.’

Putting his arms around Crowley’s shoulders, he guides him towards the stairs, giving a quick, vague nod in the direction of the blinds with enough force that pulls them down and clicks the door-lock into place. No-one shall disturb them tonight, neither of Earth, nor of Heaven or Hell.

Upstairs on the top floor, as they ascend together – one of Aziraphale’s hands on Crowley’s hip, the other on the crook of his arm – a bed appears, miraculously out of nowhere and surrounded by the bookshelves. A bit of a rushed job, perhaps, but Crowley needs to lie down quickly and Aziraphale is most certainly not about to let him sleep on the sofa tonight, with just a wall and doors, however well-locked, separating the demon from the outside world. No – hiding away, cocooning themselves between the bookshelves, seems to be the best course of action tonight.

‘Here, dear,’ he guides Crowley to sit down on the bed; watches him blindly reach for his shoes, take them off, practically fling them from him as though they’re offensive. Then he lies down, his whole body shaking and presses his face into the pillow, shoulders shaking, pulling a hand through his hair like a savage rake.

‘It’s alright, my darling,’ Aziraphale lays a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s alright – just hold on, my dear. Hold on.’ Standing, not really surprised that this is where they are and more than anything wishing he could take Crowley’s pain away, he sheds his cardigan, his own shoes – lining them up in a neat little row alongside Crowley’s – and draws up his sleeves; toddles over to the other side of the bed, which seems to be in a constant battle with itself, considering the clash of the demon’s distress and the angel’s own calm, flashing between the colours of black and the shades of tartan.

 _Oh, really,_ he thinks with a sigh and snaps his fingers, steadies the shades, compromises, half and half. That’s better, he thinks and lies down behind Crowley, lets the bed settle into itself, into this new quiet.

After a moment, he deems it safe to move, shuffles forward; spooning up carefully behind Crowley, he wraps an arm around him and pulls him back against his chest. Crowley gasps a little, shuddering and scared; grasps for his hand which Aziraphale grants him, keeping him close.

‘You’re alright, my dear. You’re alright. Okay, now breathe for me…’ He thinks he might hear Crowley snort, rather rudely – but then the demon does precisely as he’s told, inhales, exhales. Technically, they don’t need to breathe at all, being supernatural entities and such, but Aziraphale rather finds this helps. They’ve both learned a few things from their time on earth.

‘That’s it, my dear, now keep it up, keep it going, that’s it. Inhale, exhale…’ he finds himself mimicking the movements, pulling his own breath – or something like it – into the space where he fancies his lungs might be. Keeps hold of Crowley’s hand as he breathes out again; squeezes it – feels a hesitation, then a squeeze back. ‘That’s it, my dear. You’re doing ever so well.’ He kisses Crowley’s shoulder softly, twines their fingers together. ‘That’s it… One more time for me, come on…’

 _In…out._ The rattle and shake of Crowley’s breathing as he does as he’s told; does everything Aziraphale tells him to, for once in his life, rather than it simply being the other way around. There’s a significant stop, a heavy beat of silence and then Crowley’s shoulders start to shudder; little whispers of breath, like sporadically leaking steam, echo around the top floor. Aziraphale feels his heart clench.

‘Oh, Crowley. Oh, my dear.’ He squeezes his hand - once, twice, three times - and isn’t surprised when the demon turns around on the bed to sob and shake into his arms, into his chest. ‘It’ll all be alright, I promise.’

‘I don’t know what to do, angel,’ Crowley whimpers and Aziraphale feels it – feels that strain of that uncertainty, that pain, that sheer, unequivocal _fear_ of simply not being enough. And yes, Heaven may have its own say in that, but here’s the thing: _Crowley saved the world._

In Aziraphale’s eyes, that makes him far, _far_ more than enough.

‘It’s alright, dear fellow,’ he comforts. ‘It’s alright – you don’t have to do anything right now, Crowley. Just stay here, and breathe with me – _breathe_ with me, Crowley,’ he instructs, over and over, the demon sagging against him. ‘You’re safe with me.’

‘M’sorry,’ Crowley mutters and Aziraphale shakes his head, kisses his temple.

‘Think nothing of it,’ he whispers. ‘I’m here; I’m right here and all will be well. It’ll all be alright.’

*


End file.
